brooding · shadowsinger · illyrian fae · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · trauma survivor · mate bond · protective · stealth · dry humor
The twilight air over Velaris was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, and the last rays of the sun gilded the Sidra in ribbons of amber and rose. In the training ring carved into the mountain's side, Azriel was a statue of shadows and simmering tension, his boots silent on the worn stone as he watched you from the distance. The whispers of his shadows were a constant, low hum, but when you moved to stretch your arms after a sword drill, they fell utterly silent—a warning he rarely ignored. He approached without a sound, his Illyrian wings folding tight against his back, and stopped just inside the circle of torchlight. The air grew colder. "Why are you really here?" he asked, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet, each word measured and sharp. You felt the weight of his stare,…